A Sky Full of Stars
by Fatality
Summary: He was the song on the radio, he was that single star burning hot on the horizon, he was exploding across the heavens in magnificent hues of rose and amber and gold - and they were chasing the dawn together. Destiel one-shot. Songfic.


I don't own Supernatural.

I will sail on the Destiel ship until the day I die.

These events take place following 7.02 "Hello, Cruel World", several days after Dean and Sam have escaped Sioux Falls General Hospital and arrived at Rufus' old safe house in Whitefish, Montana.

I dedicate this to anyone who has ever loved and lost someone – for as we know, those we love never truly leave us.

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><p>His busted leg throbbed with the dull mending ache he had known to expect, and flipping back and forth between the world's most uneventful whale watching expedition airing on National Geographic and a Gilligan's Island rerun was no longer an adequate distraction from the pain; Dean blew a sigh and muted the TV, watching disinterestedly as Ginger's lips continued to move. He was shit at reading lips, but it wasn't like he was staring at her lips anyway so who cared what she was saying?<p>

Sam, thankfully, had slouched out of the shabby sitting room and into the run-down guest room off to the right about half an hour ago, and not a moment too soon – Dean loved his brother, but he didn't think he could take one more second of Sam's expression alternating between vacant and haunted. You'd have to be blind to miss all the signs that Sam was still having hallucinations, and maybe Dean was still playing temporary cripple but his eyesight worked just fine, _thanks_ – he'd asked if his little brother was okay, and if he'd wanted to talk about it, and if there was anything he could do to help, but Sam had been just as stupidly stoic and dismissive as he always was when he had convinced himself he didn't need help working through his own issues. Cabin fever and self-pity had reduced Dean's tolerance to almost zero, and he was fresh out of sympathy. What was the point in pressing the case if Sam didn't want any help?

Anyway, the younger Winchester was snoring softly in the adjacent room, so at least Dean didn't have to deal with that pile of issues for awhile. Bobby was nowhere to be seen, but Dean was convinced that Bobby never slept and was probably holed up in what passed for the master bedroom at the rear of the cabin surrounded by stacks of old books ranging anywhere from obscure biblical passages to little-known Jewish folklore. Dean had been optimistic at first – time and experience had proved everything was gankable – but his mood had soured faster than the milk in Rufus' fridge. Hunters everywhere were getting their faces ripped off by Leviathans, and not only were they holed up wondering who was going to go all Kathy Bates from _Misery_ first, they were practically still on square one. No progress. No leads. They were running out of food and they were _definitely_ out of booze and Dean hadn't had a decent slice of pie in going on a week and a half now, which as far as he was concerned bordered on a felony.

Not for the first time that day Dean glanced over his shoulder, wondering at the closed bedroom door behind which he was sure Bobby was quietly swearing over some old occult textbook. Also not for the first time he toyed with the idea of sneaking out for a little while. A man has needs, after all – he needed to hear the roar of baby's engine, smell the gas fumes as he thundered down the highway and listen to some Zepplin and feel the wind in his face. He just needed ten minutes of freedom, and fresh air, and a shot of Jack, and goddammit, he needed some _pie_.

He couldn't cut the cast off yet – no, he still needed to drag his stupid plaster-leg around for another two weeks before Bobby would quit hiding scissors and hacksaws from him. But he could hobble out the door and figure out the rest later.

That was how he wound up in the Impala at a quarter 'til two in the morning on a completely random Tuesday, speeding west on 93 out of Whitefish with the windows cranked down and nothing but the stars to light his way.

When he was a kid his dad had taught him to drive in this same car, he reminisced as he drove. He'd been enthusiastic and young and dumber than a box of rocks, trying to work the brake with one foot and the gas pedal with the other. John had whacked him on the back of the head every time he caught him at it, but it had still been a tough habit to break. It was good he'd formed it at all, he supposed, because with his right leg pretty much useless he had to rely on his left foot to get him from point A to point wherever. The night was cool, but not so cool that he needed the heater – he'd popped the collar on his jacket and felt comfortable enough as the miles fell away beneath his baby's well-worn tires. He fiddled absentmindedly with the radio as he went, but the reception was shitty and more often than not the speakers were just blaring white noise. Oddly enough, he didn't care much. It was enough for the moment not to feel so confined.

It wasn't until Dean was stopped at a railroad crossing watching individual locomotive cars trundle past that, weirdly, his radio kicked back on with such clarity and volume that he actually flinched in his seat. And _Christ_, he could tell from the opening few upbeat piano chords that this was the sort of mainstream bullshit he hated, but just before his fingers had fumbled over the tuning dial he heard the first words that made him pause.

"'_Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars_

_I'm gonna give you my heart_

'_Cause you're a sky, 'cause you're a sky full of stars_

'_Cause you light up the path…"_

And _ugh_, everything about it was peppy and upbeat and just disgustingly _heartfelt_, but there was some inexorable power in those words that gripped him and stilled his fingers upon the tuning dial before he could change the station. And even though nothing about it made sense, just the words _stars_ and _heart_ and _light_ reverberating through his head with a kind of annoying insistency, abruptly his thoughts were flashing through a series of not-so-distant memories that made him equal parts furious and sickeningly nostalgic.

Not long ago he'd been cruising around much like this - pedal to the metal in the dead of night with no agenda, just too keyed up to sleep and eager to wear a path in the road. He'd been listening to Bush and drumming absentmindedly on the wheel with one hand when a breath of cool air and the faint rustling of wings had alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone – by the time he'd glanced over his unexpected passenger was already reaching for the volume dial, comfortable enough that he didn't feel the need to ask.

Dean had snickered under his breath and propped his left arm in the open window, his eyes back on the road. "Taking a break from waging a war for a little classic rock? You off the clock, or are they paying you overtime?"

As usual, Castiel just couldn't be counted upon to get any of Dean's jokes – his brow had creased as he considered, head tilting curiously to one side, and when they roared through the green lights of an intersection Dean had to remind himself not to stare as the light glanced off the angel's eyes. "Warring for dominion of the heavenly host is an unpaid service and an honor, Dean."

"Whatever. You need something?"

Castiel had stared at the dash as though willing it to put his thoughts into images, and it had taken Dean a moment to realize that he was intent on the music. At length he'd answered simply, "I like this song." So Dean had smiled to himself and nudged the volume dial up a little more singing _"I don't wanna come back down from this cloud; it's taken me all this time to find out what I need"_ mostly in-tune, and though Cas had ridden with him for awhile they hadn't bothered to speak at all after that. It wasn't an awkward silence – which was saying something, because "awkward" could've been Castiel's middle name, Dean often said – but a comfortable one, one that was mutual and didn't need filling. Dean had found himself wondering for many miles after the song was over just what it was about it Castiel had liked anyway, and couldn't help but feel maybe the words _"Why did you come down?"_ had something to do with it.

Dean snapped back to reality just long enough to drag a ragged breath into his lungs before the driving beat pulled him back into another memory, this one fueled by the words "_I don't care, go on and tear me apart"_.

This one was further back, and much less enjoyable.

A punch rocked him and he stumbled, his eye already swelling and stinging, and though his vision was blurring he could still make out the figure stalking toward him; Castiel's eyes were on fire within his face, a combination of his wrathful expression and the neon red of the bar marquee across the street. He knew to straighten up to defend himself but there wasn't any fight in him, not now, and when Castiel lashed out again Dean tasted blood in his mouth. He reeled backward, swiping at the blood with the back of one hand, and _fuck that stings son of a bitch_ and the next thing he knew he was crushed up against the gritty brick wall of some sleazy place he was loathe to name with a thin trickle of blood smearing his lip and Castiel's hands bunched in the collar of his jacket.

Some still-functioning crevice of Dean's mind recited the words _hell hath no fury_ in that moment, the moment when he learned what divine fury and retribution and all of that other holier-than-thou bullshit actually meant.

"I killed two angels this week," Castiel growled in his face, holding Dean steady as he hissed every word, ensuring that Dean wouldn't miss a single syllable. "My brothers. I'm hunted. I rebelled and I did it – _all of it_ – for you."

There might have been more words after that but Dean's attention span had wavered then, for there was something captivating and terrifying and downright _beautiful, dammit_ to be found in the rage in Castiel's eyes – within the depths of that endless blue he swore he'd seen a hurricane, all whipping winds and devastating currents and impossibly blue, fathomless depths. And with that thought floating hazily through his mind Dean had become hyper-aware of the fact that their faces were inches apart and they were standing flush against one another from shoulder to hip; his hands hung uselessly at his sides, partly a gesture of complete surrender but more submission than anything else, and he had been aware of his ragged, disjointed breathing as it met resistance against Castiel's face. And there was something happening on a primal level that Dean hadn't understood then, but there was a split second during their altercation when the furious expression Castiel wore faltered to be replaced by something else. It was curiosity. It was intrigue. It was dawning realization.

"'_Cause in a sky full of stars, I think I saw you…"_

Dean shook himself out of his memories just as the speedometer inched past one-ten, and with a soft curse he brought his clumsy left foot gently down on the brake. He didn't know when he'd started speeding but for some reason he felt feverish and, somehow, giddy like a freshman girl who'd just been asked to the prom by the senior captain of the football team; he leaned forward a little and looked up, wide-eyed and momentarily stunned by the celestial canvas spread out across the dark Montana sky, and felt like maybe he wasn't as alone in the car as he thought.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean found himself saying aloud, his eyes still fixed upon the stars as he barreled recklessly down 93. "I'm still pissed about all that shit you put us through – your deal with Crowley, prying open purgatory, your God complex – and to be honest, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you, man. But…" Dean blew a sigh and settled back into his seat, a strange combination of heartache and joy and grief and regret and stubborn anger jockeying for a place in his heart, and said the only words that came to mind. "…I miss you, you dumb son of a bitch. Hell, if you showed up right now I'd be so happy to see you I might not beat your face in."

Well, not right away, he corrected himself silently with a wry smile.

"'_Cause you're a sky, you're a sky full of stars_

_Such a heavenly view_

_You're such a heavenly view."_

So Dean drove until the minutes turned into hours and his fuel dwindled slowly toward E, knowing that Sam and Bobby would rip him a new asshole but hardly caring. He never did stop for pie or a bottle of whiskey, though plenty of opportunities presented themselves as he tore up the highway. No, he stayed in his car until one by one the stars went out and the infinite blackness of the sky lightened to gray, and with the last bright star searing the eastern horizon he wheeled the Impala around and headed back the way he had come.

Castiel was up there somewhere – he was the song on the radio, he was a sky full of stars, he was that single star burning hot on the horizon, he was exploding across the heavens in magnificent hues of rose and amber and gold – and they were chasing the dawn together.

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><p>Songs used are "A Sky Full of Stars" by Coldplay and "Comedown" by Bush.<p> 


End file.
